


discussing neighborhood changes

by ascendingfromatoms



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:20:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28163067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ascendingfromatoms/pseuds/ascendingfromatoms
Summary: “Hey,” his cloudy expression is muted, like a passing rainstorm, “Will you care for me even when I’m sad for no reason?”
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Miya Atsumu & Miya Osamu, Miya Atsumu & Suna Rintarou, Miya Osamu/Suna Rintarou
Comments: 2
Kudos: 78





	discussing neighborhood changes

When Osamu gets home from his shift at the diner, his entire body feels achy, cold, and wet from the ordeal of dishwashing. His boots are swimming with puddles by night, and he has been in desperate need of a new pair, since he feels that they are starting to smell— _ badly,  _ he wrinkles his nose, as he removes his shoes in the foyer, scrambling them messily with Atsumu’s running shoes.

“I cooked the chicken soup, like ya wanted, ‘Samu,” Atsumu tilts his head back to acknowledge his brother’s presence in the entryway to the kitchen. Radio silence. Osamu nudges the stool with his foot and practically sags like a deflated balloon in his seat with his head, swarming with empty, yet cavernous thoughts, pillowed onto his arms. He curls deeper into himself, forehead pressed to the sturdy bones of his arms. Just to feel them ache.

Atsumu casts him a sullen look. He sets down the cooking pot in the center of the kitchen island, the broth from the pot steaming with juicy goodness. At this, Osamu’s head perks up, and although he says little, his eyes tell it all. It’s a twin thing, he supposes. Atsumu always can sense when the tiniest thing is off about him. He takes note, and tries to brighten the mood.

“Suna texted me that he’s comin’ over for dinner tonight. He wanted to see you,” he says simply, scooping up a hearty serving into his bowl. He watches from across the table as his brother’s expression shifts from surprised to bothered, back to his neutral, but contemplative, resting face. The little crease in Osamu’s forehead grows slightly deeper with concern, and Atsumu can just read him like a book—he knows the complexities and workings of his very mind.

The hand on the serving spoon suddenly stills, and the kitchen is silent with unspoken words between the brothers. Atsumu exhales with abandon, depositing his body onto the stool, like he needs it to stay upright. He doesn’t know why Osamu just doesn’t get it. He wants to reason with him—to tell him to stop working so hard—to finally get his shit together and let himself be happy, for once. 

His voice drops to a gravely level, a twinge of disappointment in his tone: “Ya don’t want him here.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement, because Atsumu doesn’t believe in beating around complicated feelings. He regrettably tacks on, before he can stop himself, “It’s just Sunarin…”

Osamu stares down into the empty bowl for an omen, but comes up with no suitable response.

Atsumu shifts anxiously in his seat, worried that his brother will notice, but Osamu’s eyes are too hazy and fixated on a faraway world to even notice.

“Tell him I’m not here,” Osamu finally mutters, as he scoots out of his seat to fix himself a bowl of soup. In a hush, he retreats to their shared bedroom to eat dinner there instead, leaving Atsumu waving his spoon in the air mid-sentence— _ the best way to get Atsumu to shut up is to leave him alone _ , he thinks to himself. From beyond the door, he can hear the intermittent clicking of a porcelain bowl, of a boy left alone to eat a dinner meant for three.

He slides into the desk chair, neglecting to turn on the big light, and eats rather quickly to be able to shower and fall asleep as soon as possible. Later, after some brief clearing of utensils (Atsumu’s scatterbrained dishwashing), he hears a low, muttered phone conversation through the door. The lights are on in the living room. Osamu hates knowing that he’s being talked about. After all, the walls of their house are only so thick.

He’s already fast asleep when Atsumu quietly enters the room. The blond-haired boy doesn’t particularly frown at the sight, but he looks upon him with a deep set sadness in his eyes—a glimmer of disappointment that has lingered in their house since the first time that Osamu admitted that he was getting underpaid for his stupid dishwashing job downtown.

He approaches the edge of the bed, moving in the silence. Amidst it all, he tries to keep his composure, “I told him not to come, ‘Samu.”  _ Stupid ‘Samu. _

Fuck composure. Atsumu’s breath hitches at the unfairness of the sight. His knees sink to the ground as his throat constricts with a bout of sadness. It’s eight o’clock at night. Osamu left the curtains fully opened, and the neighbor’s porch light is letting a harsh glare come through. He is all curled up, not making a sound. His hands are crumpled in the sheets, reaching for something—someone close, but just out of reach.

Atsumu bites back his words of pity, “He’s not coming, ‘Samu. He’s not coming.” He prays to whatever gods will listen, that Suna won’t give up on his stupid brother either.

* * *

In the mornings, Atsumu works the five AM shift at the coffee shop. He removes himself from their shared bed, as difficult as the task proves to be, and he prepares his work uniform in the bathroom. By the time that he gets home, Osamu will be about on his way to start dishwashing at the restaurant. He would be back in a mere handful of time.

Osamu wakes up with a crick in his neck, and as he tumbles onto his left to reach for his phone on the nightstand, he finds a clean sticky note, scrawled in bold lettering attached to his screen,  _ Christmas lights are in the attic.  _ He remembers it’s December.

He tries to look out the window only to notice that the blinds are closed. After a considerable amount of time spent lazing on the mattress, and scrolling through mind-numbing articles on his feed, he finally brings himself to the living room to tug on the string that pulls down the ladder to the attic. He collects the cardboard boxes and sets them down on the coffee table.

These lights have traveled with them, no matter where they have lived. It’s December, time to decorate. Osamu takes out the snowflake lights and strings them along the hooks that were nailed into their walls. The small task fills him with satisfaction. After some handiwork, He turns on the switch, and the entire room is lined with little glowing lights, filled with their hometown charm. 

The lights stay on during breakfast. He eats on the couch for once, admiring them. And when it’s time to go, he turns them off, but feels the ghost of a smile on his face. Perhaps a figment of his past, like childhood holidays with his brother back in Hyogo. The memory is enough to power him through the ordeal of waking up. Even if everything else in the world feels wrong, then at least he has his lights. He even answers some day-old texts from Suna Rintarou.

Later, when Atsumu comes home, his brother is at work, but he sees the remnants of holiday music playing at a low level on the stereo, and the boxes of lights neatly stacked into the corner of the room. Flipping the switch, the snowflakes flick on, and the room illuminates with brotherly warmth. He still has hope for Osamu’s happiness in the little things in life.

* * *

One night, Suna Rintarou knocks on the door of the Miya household. The kitchen lights are on, so he suspects that someone must be home. He has been texting back and forth with Atsumu, trying to make sense of things. Of course, they make him wait, and by the time that the front door creaks open, his fingers already feel numb and frozen with the biting cold.

He hears laughter—real, tangible laughter. Suna is welcomed with the sight of the string lights along the walls, and tiptoes over the brothers’ dump pile of various shoes. The twins are sitting on the couch, watching some kind of show on Atsumu’s laptop. They have forgotten mugs of hot chocolate on the coffee table, due to their unceasing laughter, and their bodies are wrapped in a thick blanket.

Mid-laughter, he meets eyes with Osamu, eyes crinkled, head swung back in amusement. In the room with the stupid snowflake lights, he looks oh-so uninhibited and joyous. Like a snow angel. Suna smiles back, unknowingly, which in turn, prompts Osamu to grin even wider.

One corner of Atsumu’s mouth twitches upward. He edges out of the blanket, clapping his hands together, “Ya take care of him for one minute, Sunarin, I’ll fix ya with a homemade hot chocolate. It’s the same recipe from the coffee shop I work at downtown.”

“He’s in good hands,” he says, working his way over to the couch to steal a bit of blanket without asking. Osamu lets the video roll, and Suna recognizes it as a cooking show out in the wilderness. He’s not particularly sure what is supposed to be funny about it, but Osamu falls for all the dumb prompted jokes, and he feels his heart growing ever more endeared.

As they continue to watch the chef maneuver the difficulties of working with culturally-diverse ingredients, he feels Osamu edge closer so that he is leaning his weight against him. Suna tries his hardest to pay attention to the show, but his heart is madly throbbing like a fuckin’ teenager with a boy crush. He says  _ damn it  _ and moves closer too, so that their legs are touching, their arms are touching, everything is touching, and his stupid heart just won’t seem to stop pounding in his ribcage.

The Miyas are perceptive and notice everything, so a part of him is scared. But when is he not scared, when it comes to them, anyways? A bubble of laughter breaks him out of his short-lived reverie. His heart completely stutters to a screeching halt when Osamu sighs contentedly, and rubs his face into the crook of his shoulder, “Yer awfully cold.”

Suna freezes over, “You think so?”

Their proximity is killing him. His eyes trail down to the smug expression on the face of the boy perched on his shoulder. Osamu was always the tactile one, bumping him with his hands when they’re grabbing for the same snack, or hooking their ankles under the table, back in their high school library. But despite all this, Suna isn’t going to admit that he, too, rather loves the attention that he gets from the boy.

“Lemme warm ya up.”

Osamu takes his hands and starts kneading them in his rough, capable hands. His hard-working hands know just what to do. Suna is officially not watching the show anymore. Osamu absentmindedly brings his hands up to his lips, ghosting over them with hot breath. “Yer so cold,” he mumbles, letting them linger there for a moment, to let him feel the words as they form on his mouth. He is drowning in warmth, he is by no definition, cold anymore.

They steadily hold hands while watching the show, and Osamu thumbs a finger over the rib of his knuckles. Suna wilts. He has no choice but to hold, and be held. With them pressed up so close together on the couch, he feels like his body is a puzzle piece, specifically molded to fit against Osamu’s curves. His bumps and soft edges. Grayish eyes, one and the same. For a moment, Suna swears that he can see colors the way that Osamu does: in startling hues of light.

His stomach does a little flop every time that Osamu gazes over absentmindedly, with the world in his eyes. There’s an electric spark between them. He wants to tell himself to peel his eyes away, but every time that their eyes meet, a transformative moment is born, again and again. In a way, it’s laughable—how much holding his hand truly affects him. 

When Osamu deems him warmed-up enough, he gives him one final squeeze and his hand starts to migrate back to his lap. In a split second of panic, Suna instinctively grabs for the retreating warmth, causing Osamu to chuckle blissfully.  _ Yer, literally an animal, Suna.  _ His face heats up at the statement, but Osamu’s is just as rosy. They look into each other’s eyes, depths of amber, depths of gray.

Suna thinks he can finally understand why everyone goes crazy when they fall in love. He feels like he’s in a jungle, teeming with life and exotic creatures unknown to him. Love can be a jungle, too. The cooking show plays on. And there’s only one way out of the mess that he’s gotten himself into. He first shifts his head closer—then chickens out and moves away.

Osamu nails him into place, with steely eyes and eyebrows furrowed, “Aren’t ya gonna…”

“Shut up,” he spits, without any of the usual bite. Osamu shuts up compliantly, licking his lips. Suna sidles up to him on the couch, and places a hand on his shoulder. “I’m going to kiss you.”

Before he can chastise himself for being so straightword and unromantic, Osamu meets him halfway and kisses him. It’s a fiery exchange of teeth and lips and tongue, leaving him gasping breathless in his mouth. His hand has migrated from Osamu’s shoulder, up into the gray locks on the back of his neck, sliding up to the hair on his forehead. Osamu presses him against the couch cushions, with a steadying hand on his back. Hot and cold.

Suna pants out, “You’re good at this.”

He’s caught between the couch, and the boy he adores. Osamu whispers against his lips, “You deserve nothing less, baby.”

They meet in the middle once again, latching onto each kiss like it's their last. Everything fits together like a puzzle piece, under the twinkling snowflake lights. For a moment, they break away from each other to look into each other’s eyes and catch their breath. Suna feels an acute loss of warmth the moment that Osamu leaves the blanket to check if the door is locked.

It is absolutely one AM in the morning, but Suna doesn’t have anywhere he needs to be. He lives a little bit down the street, so it doesn’t matter much to him what time it is. Osamu joins him on the couch again, snuggling up to his side under the blanket. It’s pretty tame, in reality, but Suna feels his heart on fire. The mouse hovers over the play button, and Osamu scratches the back of his neck, “I’m stupidly obsessed with this, we need to watch one more episode.”

(I’m stupidly obsessed with you, really)

Time passes in slow motion, and in growing shadows. Atsumu is long gone, and he suspects that the whole thing was a ploy to get them to cuddle up together. He’s not even sure if he wants to watch the show to actually  _ watch _ the show, and with Osamu next to him, it’s awfully hard not to stare.

At him, of course.

* * *

Christmas is approaching, and the radio won’t shut up about the weather. Atsumu is reading a book on the couch to occupy himself before Osamu gets home. He is in between conversations with Suna, and the god-awful library book that sits in his hands. He feels his eyes blurring as the words blend together to make snowmen. It’s late.

When he stifles a yawn, Suna looks over at him from his phone, and tells him , “You should go to sleep, Atsumu. I’ll wait for him.”

“Maybe I should,” Atsumu folds the corner of the page to mark his spot, and sets the book down lightly on the coffee table. He leans over on his side and stretches his body out so that his legs hang over the edge of the couch. Suna’d expected him to retreat to his bedroom and legitimately go to sleep, but there he lays, unabashedly in his own living room, sprawled out on his ten year old leather couch.

Atsumu trusts him enough to not write on his face with marker, or maybe he was just too tired to move. His chest rises and falls with exhaustion. He cares too much about Osamu to stay up for him every night. He is softly snoring. In lieu of him, Suna takes it upon himself to understand what makes  _ Reel Her In  _ so laughably bad, and after he has read page two of fishing metaphors, he thinks he understands why.

Suna looks over at the older Miya every once in a while, out of curiosity. He is Osamu, in every fiber of his physical entity, but seeing him sprawled out on the couch doesn’t fill him with the same domestic swell of affection that his twin elicits. Always, he could tell them apart. The Miyas have their twin thing, but Suna always had his Osamu thing going for him, even back in high school.

It’s not that Atsumu isn’t attractive, even Suna took notice of that. It’s the way that Osamu  _ moves _ and the certain way about him that makes him all warm and fuzzy inside. It’s the way that Osamu doesn’t hesitate to snatch the last onigiri at the dinner table, or snap back at his brother with a fiery retort—yet shows a surprising amount of calm restraint when dealing with Suna’s antics.

It’s also in the way that Atsumu works hard, but Osamu works himself to the bone. He doesn’t know when to quit. For a brief moment, he pries his eyes away from the words on the page and checks the current time on his cellphone. He turns off the speaker with the remote, which has been quietly streaming music at an uncomfortably low volume. He sets his phone down on the coffee table, and cracks open the romance book to give it another chance.

An indefinite amount of time passes, and Osamu jumbles the key through the lock, kicking his boots off carelessly at the door. His face slightly widens in surprise when he sees Suna in the house, engrossed in a book, and even stranger, his brother fast asleep on two-thirds of the couch, the same brother who religiously goes to bed at the same time every night. 

Suna appraises him, sweaty, and exhausted, but still stares into his eyes and calls him beautiful. Just like the snowflake lights, and the little things in life that make him laugh. He caresses his face between his hands, and gives his cheeks a naughty pinch. Osamu leans into it, his forehead bumping lightly against his, and their breaths mingle in the space between them. Suna’s mouth inches upwards to give him a kiss on the forehead, even when he scrunches his nose and futilely tries to wiggle out of his grip. 

He takes him by the arm, “C’mon, go get washed up so that we can get you to bed.”

Osamu prys off his fingers tiredly, shoving at his chest, “Ya should go home, aren’t ya tired at all?”

Suna routinely stays up until the crack of dawn, it’s unhealthy, but he means it when he says, “Stop that.” There are so many lovely words that surface on his tongue, but he swallows them down to continue, “I care about you, and I want you to feel okay about yourself again.”

His eyes nearly fog up at his own words. The boy softens in his hands, visibly losing the pent up tension in his shoulders from the long work day. The boy’s eyes widen with emotion, and Suna has never been the best with comforting, but he tries his best when the dam comes flooding through. Osamu wipes at his eyes, and that’s the only way that he can tell that he is crying; stupid Osamu, hiding his stupid feelings all the time. Suna pulls him flush against his body, wrapping his arms long and wide around him. He’s not a loud crier, but when Suna tells him to let it out, he feels the hiccup of his shaky breath on his chest, and the wetness of tears on his shirt.

“I’ve just been working so hard,” Osamu croaks, before breaking down again, “And I feel like it just isn’t enough to get by.” Suna hushes his whimper, and squeezes his hand tight for good measure. 

When they are laying together in the bed, Osamu rolls over to turn off the lamp, and Suna plugs in his cell phone to charge for the night. He’s wearing borrowed clothes, sleeping on Osamu’s usual side of the bed, because Osamu doesn’t want to deal with Atsumu’s moanin’ and groanin’ about someone else using his pillow. Osamu sets Atsumu’s pillow on their chair, and nuzzles against Suna, to use him as a pillow instead.

He works his hands into Osamu’s soft hair, massaging the scalp of his head. He doesn’t fall asleep like the rest of the world does, and in a way, he almost feels trapped against the mattress and Osamu’s head. But he is comfortable, and he can live with that. On the verge of sleep, Osamu adds softly, “Thanks fer waiting fer me, Sunarin.”

He’d always come when Osamu needed him.

“You’re in good hands,” he smiles against his hair and swears that he sees a halo of angelic light above his head. His snowflake. His angel.

* * *

Osamu is a big cuddler. They wake up in the morning, with legs knotted together, and their pillows and blankets knocked to the floor. After untangling themselves, Suna stretches out the fine muscles in his back, feeling each section loosen up with each gentle twist. His spine pops contentedly down the row with minimal effort and he lets out a muffled exhale of breath.

With hair falling over his eyes in an early morning swoop, Osamu crawls back into his space, reaching down to press a particularly sore spot between his shoulder blades, “Yer horrible to yer back, lemme give ya proper massage,”

Suna shrugs, folding onto his stomach, “Work your magic.”

Osamu gently takes Suna’s face into his hands and repositions him onto the pillow on his lap. He slips his fingers under the shirt, and dances the tips against each individual ridge in his spine. All tension in his body disappears with Osamu’s careful touch, as he kneads his fingers into the crevices that he can’t reach alone. Suna arches his back into the massage, groaning with pleasure. 

When he’s done with the massage, Suna stretches out on the bed, dragging Osamu down with him, and pressing him into his stomach. He giggles, giving featherlight kisses to the top of his head, smothering him with early morning affection, and well-placed teases to his hair. There is nothing in the world better than this. And at that moment, Atsumu decides to barge into the room with a slam.

“‘Samu have you seen my—” He freezes, and it is clear from the look on his face that he definitely wished that he knocked. Suna does not reach for a shirt to clothe himself.

He attempts to recover. “I mean… oops?”

“Nothing you haven’t seen before,” Suna says dryly to humor him, yet looking straight at Osamu’s twitching face, boldly suppressing an onslaught of giggles. Atsumu does the best thing that he can do, and politely excuses himself back into the living room to leave them alone. When the door clicks with finality, the two of them share a moment of silence before bursting into unhinged laughter.

Never again did Atsumu forget to knock.

* * *

Osamu needs someone to vent to. He shows up at Suna’s house, and storms onto the couch without much of a greeting. Suna eyes the slope of his back warily, making his way around the living room to squeeze next to him on the chair. He sets his glass of water on the coffee table, and takes one look at Osamu’s pouty face, who is just waiting for him to give him his full attention.

He rants about his manager and the stupid dishwashing job. His eyes are flaring with passion, while he complains about the severe lack of pay that he gets for what he does all day. Suna listens to his nightmare. As his voice is straining in frustration, and his forehead scrunches, Suna takes his hand and squeezes it for good measure.

“God, you’re cute,” Suna mumbles aloud. He scooches over, abandoning his perch, and fits himself tightly against the shoulder of Miya Osamu, feeling the warmth emanate from his very being. It was probably an Osamu thing, not wanting the one to lean on, but rather the one to be leant on. He didn’t bother himself too much with the thought because he liked the solidness of Osamu’s body against his own.

Osamu frowns slightly, “You think I’m cute?”

“Definitely,” says Suna, pinching his cheek. He loved doing that to him.

“Even when I’m angry?”

“Even when you’re angry.”

Osamu makes a sound of disbelief, and leans in closer, “Even when I’m pissed off at ‘Tsumu’s dumb antics or my boss is being shitty?”

“Yes. And you don’t deserve any of that, by the way,” he replies, playing with his calloused fingers. And he means every word of it. Hearing Osamu talk about himself fills him with an immense sort of pride for the fact that he is privy to his thoughts—and that Osamu trusts his words to sit between them. He knows that Osamu is a private person, and it is an honor for him to be allowed so close to his heart.

“What a sap,” he smiles, pecking Suna on both cheeks, leaving them both flushed and wanting more. Between the two of them he’s the giver, and Suna is just trying to take as much of him as he can get: words and kisses and thoughts, for a penny. He readjusts his body so he is sprawled across the length of the couch, and face is smushed into Osamu’s shirt, stealing whiffs of the boyish scent, and remnants of laundry day.

They are quiet for a moment, fingers finding their way into Suna’s brown hair, stroking delicately. Suna nuzzles his nose into his belly, tickling him mercilessly, his weak spot. Osamu tries to push him away with his hands, but is no match for Suna’s charms. He ends up being pinned down onto the couch with Suna on top of him, and reaching under his shirt to use his weaponized cold hands against him. The house is filled with adoring laughter, and fake protests on Osamu’s end.

Suddenly, the smile disappears off his face.c He sits up, distressed, and forces Suna to sit up and look him in the eyes, “Hey,” his cloudy expression is muted, like a passing rainstorm, “Will you care for me even when I’m sad for no reason?”

The message is clear— _ Will you love me even if I’m not perfect? Or when I’m having a bad day and I just don’t want to do anything but eat and sleep? Will you be around for when I’m not feeling right, because I can’t function without a good meal. Will you love me? _

Osamu wrings his hands. “I know I’m a handful, and I’m not askin’ ya to fix me, but if we’re gonna keep going down this road the way we’re going, I want to know for sure that you’re not doing this out of pity. I like ya, Rin. I really do, but I don’t want to be completely misreading this situation…”

“You’re not a burden to me,” says Suna, firmly laying down the words. “Never have I ever thought of you as a burden, even on your worst days. You’re cute and funny, and you’re just such an amazing human and I don’t deserve you at all,” he breathes, “And there’s no need to second-guess my actions, ‘Samu, I like you too—no wait, scratch that—I think that I’m in love with you.”

Osamu looks as though he has been pierced with an arrow, and his face is starting to fill with something new, “But you gotta understand that loving me is hard, Rin. I’m hard to deal with, my emotions mostly—and I don’t even know how to love myself.”

Suna says, “Well, somebody’s gotta do it.”

Something inside of him slips, and Osamu reaches across the couch again to encase him in the tightest hug—one that spoke a million words. He tells him, “You know what I don’t think I just like ya, I think I’m in love with ya too, Rin.”

They curl up next to each other on the couch for the rest of the day, and continue watching the last episode they left off of the cooking show. Mid-episode, Suna receives a short text on his phone from Atsumu saying,  _ thank you _ . And the follow-up message of,  _ he loves you a lot, you have my blessing. _

  
  



End file.
